


Crest

by ultraviolence



Series: in the arms of the ocean (mermaidverse) [2]
Category: Rogue One: A Star Wars Story (2016), Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Merpeople, Cuddling & Snuggling, Ficlet, Fluff, Kissing, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-01
Updated: 2017-12-01
Packaged: 2019-02-08 19:39:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12871596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ultraviolence/pseuds/ultraviolence
Summary: Orson's cold and accidentally burned his palm with Tarkin's cigar. Tarkin shows him how human beings endured, during winter. Offshoot of Ripple, set after Deluge. AU.





	Crest

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ArgentGale](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArgentGale/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Ripple](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12838389) by [ArgentGale](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArgentGale/pseuds/ArgentGale). 



> lol I can't believe I'm writing a Tarkrennic fluff but I completely blame [ArgentGale](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ArgentGale) and wilhuffs at Twitter for this. The original prompt was a sleepover with lots of wine, snide insults, and cuddles, but somehow it turned into this. Stacey, I hope you're happy with this, this is your early birthday fic. Happy early birthday, love! xxxx
> 
> Enjoy!

“How was it?”

Tarkin asked, from his perch in the armchair in front of the fireplace, as he heard the front door being unlocked, and then the footsteps, as Orson entered the room. He was sans his coat (borrowed from Tarkin) and Tarkin assumed that the other man had hung them on the coat hanger near the door. He took a moment to take a lazy drag of his cigar--an heirloom from his great-grandfather, passed to him by his father, a testament of his family’s wealth in the past--and studied Orson, taking him in. The room was warm, the fire burning steadily in the fireplace, crackling as the embers sparked and danced, laden with the smell of Tarkin’s cigar, the room atmospheric and drowsy with half of its light extinguished. His house was a testament of the past, as well--even if Tarkin was nothing more than a mere fisherman now, and his siblings had moved to other towns to make their luck, he still tried to kept it how it is, even if some parts were breaking down. But, thanks to Orson, he’d managed to make quite a bit of money lately, and he allowed himself to indulge in the cigars that he saved for special occasions.

Orson still looked cold, even with an extra jacket hanging off his narrow frame. Tarkin wondered how his people stayed warm during the winter.

“Cold,” he answered, not unpredictably, only the slightest bit grumpy. “I didn’t see anyone around,” he said, making his way towards Tarkin, leaning in for a kiss on the lips. “You tasted weird,” he added, after the kiss, snatching the cigar from Tarkin’s hand before Tarkin could stop him. “What’s this?” he asked, turning the thing around in his hands, hissed a little when it burns him, but the glint of curiosity and amusement in his blue eyes were unmistakable. “I think you’ve told me about this before. About things people smoke.”

“Yes,” Tarkin said, nodding, taking the cigar from his hands. “Orson, you should be more careful. That burn doesn’t look bad, but let me take a look,” he added, extending a hand, and grudgingly, with a frown, Orson gave him his hand, letting Tarkin look at his burned palm. “Go wash it with some water,” he told him, patting his hand a little. It’s been nearly a week, and Orson had asked-- _demanded_ \--to go back home, citing that he’d learnt enough about humans and their strange ways, but Tarkin delayed him since it was nearly the middle of winter. It was, admittedly, a selfish request, because he wanted Orson to stay with him as much as the other wanted him to stay with _him_ , and Tarkin worried about him, a little. He hadn’t voiced his concerns yet.

“But the water’s _cold_ ,” Orson whines, and Tarkin smiled at him patiently. “It’s so cold it burns. I don’t understand how you humans survived this, year after year.”

“We endure,” Tarkin said, shrugging lightly. “And--” he pulled him in for another kiss, ruffling his hair affectionately, “--we keep each other warm. I think you know that already.”

There was a pause, in which Orson bit his bottom lip. “Fine. I’ll wash my hand.”

“And I’ll pour you some wine,” Tarkin said, raising an eyebrow. “Take off your jacket, too.”

Orson opened his mouth, obviously about to bother him with another question, but Tarkin merely shooed him with a wave of his hand. “Now go,” he told him, sternly. “I’ll be in my bedchambers.”

* * *

True to his words, Tarkin poured them both some wine after he finished his cigar and made his way to his room. It wasn’t the very best wine he had on his shelf, but it was the second best one, fit for a king and for a cold night like this. It definitely took Orson a while, but when he returned, he had his hand bandaged, obviously by himself, and very obviously looking very proud of it, but in truth, the bandage was too big and it was a small burn, not to mention that he didn’t do it quite right. Tarkin wanted to laugh, managed a small, amused smile in the end.

“Let me take a look at your hand again before I gave you some wine,” he said, beckoning at Orson to come closer. Orson hung about by the doorway, looking slightly confused but definitely caught wind of what Tarkin was talking about.

“I did it by myself,” Orson told him, inching closer, narrowing his eyes slightly at Tarkin, although he still looked proud. “I found the bandages in a cabinet. I’ve closed the cabinet again, don’t worry, Wil.” he grudgingly--once more--gave Tarkin his hand to be examined. “I did it right, didn’t I?”

Tarkin suppressed another laugh, and this time didn’t manage to keep it in. He let out a small laugh, turning Orson’s hand in his own hands. “You may call me a dirty old landlubber, Orson, and you may command your own underwater kingdom, but you _definitely_ did not get this right.”

Orson frowned. “Is it the placement? Or what? I definitely got it _right_. You’re just a dirty landlubber, Wil. Don’t blame me if I don’t understand your strange landlubbing ways.”

Tarkin looked up at him and smiled. “It’s just a small burn, Orson. You don’t need such a large bandage. You’ll be fine,” he added. “It’s not life-threatening or anything.”

Orson let out a large, exaggerated sigh, clearly for a dramatic effect, and Tarkin let go of his hand. “Oh, thank _goodness_ ,” he said, sarcastically, “I thought I was going to die. I’m still not used to this fire thing. But thank the sea I’m not going to die.”

“You’re not,” Tarkin reaffirmed, reaching for one of the wine glasses and handed it to him. “Now take a sip of this.”

Orson raised an eyebrow, but this time didn’t ask any questions. Tarkin had explained about alcohol before, and wine, to him. He took one strangely elegant sip--elegant, as in he wasn’t as clumsy as he was with a lot of things ever since he undertakes the transformation, including things as basic as _walking_ \--and looked impressed afterwards. “It warms me up from the inside,” he said, turning the glass around in his hands. “So is this why you humans drink alcohol?”

“That, and a lot of other things,” Tarkin laughed, a little, taking a sip from his own glass. “So, how are you enjoying my village so far?”

Orson looked deep in thought for a moment, brow furrowed, like tiny crests of waves. His eyes were still that impressive shade of blue, and Tarkin could still feel his breath catching in his throat when he looked at him. He’d met other merpeople--albeit select ones that Orson introduced him to--after their first meeting and bargain, not so long ago, but he hadn’t found anyone as intriguing and attractive as Krennic, even if every single one of them was exceptionally beautiful, and there was an allure to them that was impossible to resist.

“It’s not bad,” he finally says, shrugging, and then grinned. “They really brought the lie that I’m your cousin from the city, doesn’t it? They didn’t dare give me a hard time because as you said, Wil, they thought I’m a cityfolk.”

“Well, they’re as gullible as any,” Tarkin said, raising his glass, and this time, Orson understands, and clinked it to his. “We had them from the start, I’d say.”

There was a companionable pause as both of them enjoyed their respective wines, and Orson sat down beside Tarkin in the sofa. “But,” Krennic said, abruptly. “I still can’t get the hang of _these_ ,” he raised a leg, turning slightly to face Tarkin, leaning in conspiratorially, “I don’t know how you people managed.”

“Well, a tail has its uses underwater, but it has no use here,” Tarkin told him, ever-practical, giving him a mock-stoic expression. “I don’t know how _you_ people managed, too. And I have a question,” he added.

“Tell me,” Orson said, sipping his wine, slowly, like he was born to it. He was still a tad bit uncouth, of course, but Tarkin forgives him since it’s his first time trying out fine wine.

“What do you do during the winter? Do you migrate to somewhere warmer, hibernate, or do you have any other way to weather it?”

Orson’s lips curled up into a smile, and he laughed, a hearty laugh. “We have our own ways to keep ourselves warm. Magic, according to you. We’re not animals, Wil.”

“Of course you’re not,” Tarkin agreed, coolly, not showing the slightest hint of surprise. He felt that Orson was studying him, closely.

“Oh, you really think we are, aren’t you?” Krennic said, after a moment, laughing. “You fucking _bastard_. You think we’re just pretty talking fishes who happened to _look_ human from the waist up. Well, most of the time.”

“It’s not my fault _you_ are a _pretty_ talking fish, Orson,” Tarkin said, looking into his eyes, threading his fingers in his hair, pulling him closer, feeling Orson’s warmth seeped through the fabric of his tunic. It was a welcome sensation and a familiar one.

Orson let Tarkin held him after a moment, and there was silence again, another comfortable one. He noticed that Orson had drunk all of his wine. He felt his fingers on his tunic, just _touching_ him listlessly--he’s quite a tactile person (merperson?) and Orson can be clingy when he wanted to be. Right now he’s definitely clinging to Tarkin, and the older man doesn’t really mind.

“Are you still cold?” Tarkin asked, tilting the other man’s chin up so he could kiss him on the lips, tasting the heat from his mouth and traces of wine and the winter on his lips, although even then, there are still traces of seawater and brine in it. He thought of it now as something unchanging, much like the sea.

“A little,” Orson murmured in return, obviously enjoying the affection. “But better.”

“Let’s get to bed,” Tarkin suggested, noticing that the other man was suppressing a yawn. “We’ll wake up early tomorrow and...and we’ll take a walk on the shore. Before high tide.”

Orson looked at him, the sharpness of his blue eyes puts everything in perspective. It was as if life had been monotone before he came along, before his presence in this house, as if everything had been greys and blacks and whites. Tarkin felt his breath catching. “Do you promise, Wil?”

“Yes,” he answered, without hesitation. “And you can...you can go back home too if you want.”

“No,” Orson says, rising from his seat and comfortably settles in the bed. “I think I’d like to stay a little bit longer. _Endure_ , as you said.”

Tarkin finished his wine and climbed into bed after him, letting him pulling him close, wrapping his arms around the other man. He could hear Orson let out a sigh of pleasure. Tarkin smiled, slightly.

“Yes,” he said, turning Orson a little to his side so he could kiss his forehead, “stay a little while longer.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, comments & suggestions are definitely more than welcome! <3


End file.
